


A Thousand Nights Before He Sleeps

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-19
Updated: 2008-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Done for the spittingink@LJ prompt of 'a thousand'.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Thousand Nights Before He Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the spittingink@LJ prompt of 'a thousand'.

Listen, my dearest one, and I will tell you the tale of the Prince Who Found Sleep.

Once upon a time, and many lands ago, there was a young man called Peter. Actually, he was a prince, but he wasn't very good at it. He was more of the idle type of prince, who spent most of his days rolling around with the damsels and making mischief. Most persons despaired that he would never become a fine king, but he was very good at making people smile, so they thought that there might be some use for him yet.

However, he made many mistakes, and one of them was rolling around with one too many damsels at a time. As a matter of fact, he did far worse: one of those damsels wasn't a damsel at all, but a witch with a temper, one that she could not control when she found the prince hidden away in one of the royal cabins with a lovely wood-nymph.

"How dare you!" she cried, glaring at them as they struggled with the bed-linens. "You... you _cad_!"

"Women always call me that," Pete mused, casting about for a pair of trousers. "I used to think it was my real name. Morgana, darling, could you... you know, give me a bit of privacy? I was having such an interesting conversation here, with...with... what's your name?"

The nymph pouted prettily.

"Interesting, indeed!" The witch Morgana screeched, hands on her hips. She raised one, and pointed a long nail right at Peter. "I curse thee: _Pray your gods your soul to keep, a thousand nights before you sleep_ ...errr.... _never again you'll find sweet rest, hidden on a woman's breast_!"

"Wait," Pete said, clutching a quilt close even as the nymph cowered behind him, not wanting to attract the wrath of the witch. "Just... what does that mean?"

"I don't know!" Morgana stomped on foot on the wooden floor almost petulantly. "I just had to rhyme it! But," and her lovely face became sly, "I'll warrant you'll find out soon, won't you?"

With a satisfyingly witch-like cackle, she spun on her heel and disappeared in a column of smoke. Pete coughed and then frowned.

"Oh, well," he concluded, and pounced on the nymph again with a princely yell.

But, as you might well know, the curse of the witch Morgana manifested itself the night. Pete tossed and turned, trying to catch just a bit of rest, but there was none to be had. He pushed off all the heavy sheets, he pulled them up again, he ordered his fire to be banked low, and then told the harried servants that he wanted the fire high once more, and he was so bothered and so tired by the time the sun came up again, that his friend Andy said he looked like a raccoon with his eyes so puffed and dark. Pete threw a boot at him, blinking tiredly, and Andy laughed.

"Long night?" he leered and Pete took up his other boot to hurl, feeling most irritable. It was a fine spring day, and he had had plans to go down into the village and harass some people, but he wasn't in the mood at all.

"It was," he replied shortly. "But I'll be fine."

He wasn't. When night came again, sleep slipped way from Pete's desperate grip. At one point, he sat up straight in his large bed, and called for a servant.

"Get one of the house-maids," he said in a ragged voice. "Bid her come to my chamber. I have an experiment."

"Experiment?" The servant said in a soft voice, but scampered out at the dark look in Pete's eyes. A young lady appeared at his door a few moments later, her face perplexed as Pete motioned at her to approach his bed. "Sit near," he commanded, and when she had gingerly poised at the edge of his bed, he snuggled close, flung an arm around her waist, and pressed his face into her bosom.

The young servant woman drew a sharp breath, but Pete squeezed his arms around her, briefly, and she remained still. "I won't hurt you," he said gruffly. "Or do anything else. Just be still for a moment."

One moment turned into long, uncomfortable minutes, until Pete drew back, exhaling sharply.

"Thank you," he told the confused young woman. "You may go." The young woman withdrew quickly, casting a quick look at the outstretched, slender body of the prince sprawled on his bed, and fled his room to gossip about his strange behaviour.

And so it was that the prince found out his precious sleep was gone from him. Once, when he would put his head to a woman's lush chest and hear her heart beating in his ear, he would be lulled to sleep like a baby. No more; he watched the moon and the stars whirl in their ageless dance, and he felt bitter exhaustion thrum through his head.

 _A thousand nights before you sleep_ , that witch had said. It had only been a few nights, and yet the prince felt as if he was going to go mad. _A thousand nights_.

* * *

The prince changed as the days went by; his bright smile faded, his jocular attitude disappeared and his happy-go-lucky ways expired completely. He became haggard and sharp, lashing out at anyone who crossed him, or even made a tiny mistake in his presence. His friend Andy had to stop him many a time from starting a fight, or punishing someone wrongfully. He began to dress in dark, billowing cloaks, looking like a spectre from some nightmare as he walked all about his castle-home, all hours of the night. The night-watch became used to him, and if he was in a relatively good mood, they would spar now and again.

His father the king searched for the witch Morgana, and had her brought before the throne.

"End this curse of yours," he had ordered as she stood there with her head high. "End it and you shall be paid well."

Her eyes flickered to where the prince sat on a lower throne, a hood pulled low over his head. She could only see the unshaven curve of his cheek, the fixed wide brown circle of his eye. He looked grim and mad; even his mother hesitated to touch him, for his body was taut.

"I ... I don't know how," she faltered. "The words are specific. 'A thousand nights', no sleep."

"Can it be broken?"

"Yes. But not by me."

"Hang her," Pete said dully, and the court murmured. "Let her suffer as I suffer."

The king's mouth was a tight line and he said nothing, only motioned for the guards to take the witch away. He did not put her to hang, because he well knew that Pete's predicament was of his own making, and there might be a lesson in it, somewhere. He placed her in a cell, and left her under the watch of the guardsmen for a short while before having her released quietly.

He also issued a decree:

 _Pray our gods our souls to keep  
A prize to they that bring sweet sleep_

The decree did not say _who_ the sleep should be brought to, but everyone in the land knew. Old women brought forth their home-made concoctions, and the palace tasters were busy testing them all. The more powerful ones were sent to the prince, and while these made him pleasantly drowsy and less of a fright to deal with, the effect soon passed, and he was back to being wide awake and unhappy. A man came with a small clock on a golden chain that he swung in front of the eyes of the prince; nearly everyone else that watched was sent into a light rest, except for poor Pete. He tried nearly everything, and got more and more bitter with every attempt, for it seemed that a thousand nights would indeed come and go before he could find sweet sleep.

At least, he had time to read; he would sit up all night, poring over the legends and tales in huge library, just a lonely, tired prince and a single lamp. He read about lands that were far away, and noblemen fighting dragons, and many a wonderful thing, but there was nothing to be found, nothing at all, about finding sleep.

It came to pass that the king heard of a travelling band, and bade them to come play in the palace back-courts, for a bit of well-needed entertainment. The prince did not attend, for he refused to come out of the library and mingle with his friends and family. He could hear the loud noises the workers made as they set up a stage on the sloping back walls, the quick hammering and playful shouts. He sat stubbornly in the large chair that had been placed in a shadowy corner for him, and stuck his nose deeper in a large book, his eyes burning.

Night fell slowly and his friend Andy came in with a lamp, placing it on a round table at his arm. "Come on," Andy urged, tugging at his sleeve. "The band looks amusing, and there is lots of food. Come outside."

"I can hear them fine from here," Pete told him sourly, and went even deeper into his book. He could almost hear Andy's shrug, and his friend went away.

The noise of revelling began below Pete's library window, and he scowled. That was the sound of people who had gotten a nice night's rest and were just in the right mood for a party. There were delighted screams and short explosions; Pete wondered how his father would take it if he went onto the roof and threw cold oil on the lot of them.

Finally, it became a little quieter and singing began. There were many songs for dancing, and Pete caught himself, once or twice, tapping his boot on the stone floor to the lively beat. There were a few drunken ballads, and when Pete thought he could not take anymore, there was a long, expectant silence.

Then, a solitary voice started up, very hesitantly, untrained and low; but a very nice voice, for all that. Pete raised his eyes from the page he had been reading about a giant in a forbidden jungle; he tilted his head, listening. It was a very sad song; about a lover lost to another, a broken heart, a final sunset. Pete raised his eyebrows cynically at the dramatic lyrics, but he could not prevent himself from getting up quickly and going to the tall, thick-glassed window, peering down.

On the roughly-made stage, a figure stood under the warm yellow light cast by the lamps, covered from head to toe in gauzy, colourful material, layers and layers of it. It was the traditional dress of the northern tribes, that of a young, unmarried woman, but that was all Pete could tell. The singer's hands were restless, now held behind the back, now fluttering expressively in the air, the wide sleeves of the colourful robe fastened close to a small, pale wrist. _Such a pretty voice_ , the prince thought to himself dreamily, and, for the first time in many weeks, he did that slow nod people always do when they're trying to keep awake, and failing.

He snapped his head back. He had... he had been _falling asleep_. He turned and ran out of the quiet library, literally flying down corridors and wide, curving staircases, skidding along the polished floor until he got to the doors standing open the courtyard; he could see the backs of the crowd and hear applause as the singer finished the emotional ballad. A man with a comfortable grin and a shock of curly brown hair took the stage and thanked the crowd for their patronage, even as he produced a velvet bag and smoothly asked for a little more of their charity. Pete pushed his way right to the front of the stage and called to the man imperiously.

"Your Highness," the man said, sketching a quick bow after he leapt from the stage. "How may I be of service?"

"The last singer," Pete said sharply, seeing his father coming towards him out of the corner of his eyes. "What is her name?"

"Dawn," the man said warily. "And I am her brother, Joseph."

"I would that she sings for me," Pete said firmly. "Sing for me tonight."

Joseph frowned. "Your Highness, you ask for much. It is not the way of my people to let a maiden alone with a man who is not her relative."

"Then come with her!" Pete snapped. "I don't care what you do, as long as you have her there, singing!"

"I'm sure my son means to graciously request your presence in his chambers this evening," Pete's father said smoothly, but the look he threw Pete as he finally came to stand with them was full of censure. "It appears that her voice may assist my son with a problem of his. If so, you will be rewarded greatly."

"Very greatly," Pete said in desperation. "Very. _Very_. Greatly."

Joseph regarded them with suspicious eyes and then nodded slowly. "Let me go tell my sister, your Highness. We will come, as soon as possible."

Pete nodded curtly and turned around, marching away to the open doors. He went straight to his quarters and growled at everyone in his way, flinging himself face-first on the bed and waiting. It seemed that a very long time passed before someone knocked on his door and entered when he yelled at them to get the hell inside and stop that racket.

"Good evening, your Highness," Joseph said as Pete rolled over and sat up, staring at them. A guard had brought them in, and he stood just inside the door as Joseph and his sister came in further. "Here we are."

"Obviously," Pete snarled, and then looked at the singer called Dawn. Now she was dressed in more sombre clothing, black and grey. The material was sheer, but there were so many layers of it, and only a thinner panel over the nose clearly showed wide eyes. "Well? Sing!"

Dawn blinked, and then sat gracefully on the floor, arranging her robes over her legs. Pete caught a strangely enticing glimpse of a pale foot encased in a sturdy sandal, and then it was all hidden away.

Joseph played and Dawn sang, a very low voice, almost a whisper. They had chosen a lullaby. _How appropriate_ , Pete thought, and flopped back against the bed.

There was nothing for a very long time, and Pete was just about to sit up again and order them to leave, when he felt it. A faint tug, as if some light rope was strung around his temples and dragging him down to somewhere deep, and he was still resisting. Dawn's voice grew a little stronger, and the tug became even more insistent. For a moment, Pete felt a flash of fear; then, he realised this sinking feeling was sleep; it was _sleep_ , creeping up on him with sly feet, ready to pounce on him and pull him completely under.

"Sing," Pete breathed, turning his head to the side with a small, hopeful grin on his face. Dawn faltered, and went back to her soothing song. "Sing, until--"

But he never said until _what_ , for suddenly, he was fast asleep.

* * *

"Aha!" Pete raced down the halls, screeching triumphantly. "That worthless witch! _Never again you'll find sweet rest, hidden on a woman's breast_... what a load of sh--"

"I see you had a fine night's rest last night," his father the kind king said mildly as Pete flew past him. Pete halted, arms pinwheeling and the sudden stop; he doubled back, and gave his father an enthusiastic hug.

"The wonderful Dawn sang me to sleep," he said excitedly. "Where is she? I must thank her, personally."

"She and her tribe have moved on," the king replied, taking him by the shoulders to steady him. "They were granted a rich reward, and have departed."

"Oh." Pete nodded slowly. "Well. _Anyway_ , the important thing is, I'm sleeping again. That is all that matters."

He spent the early part of the day gallivanting around the city with Andy, as he had in the time before he lost his sleep; but it seemed very childish to him now. He found he could hardly wait to return to the library and read something, and his father was quite shocked when he entered the main Meeting Hall and sat behind the large royal throne, listening intently to the boring sessions that were necessary to run a nation.

"Trying to fall asleep again, Peter?" his father whispered when there was a lull, and Pete grinned at him. Even though his face still looked tired, the haggard expression was nearly gone. His eyes were gaining back their sparkle, and the king marvelled at how beneficial a full night's rest could be.

Unfortunately, and as you might have already suspected, my clever darling, Pete could not fall asleep that evening. He rolled from one side of the bed to the other, near tears from frustration. It really wasn't _fair_. Dawn had sung him to sleep just last night! What went wrong? Either she hadn't banished the curse properly, or... she had cast another. It wouldn't be unusual. Those northern tribes could be tricky and sly. He set his jaw, and flung himself out of bed. Their group was large, and travelled slowly. He would go out on horseback with the first light, and catch up to them. He wouldn't lose his precious sleep so easily, not again.

* * *

"Did I tell you that this was a really bad idea? You always have the worst ideas," Andy told him glumly as their horses moved restlessly. They were on top of a small grassy crest, peering through the thick stand of trees down onto the camp of the travelling band. They could clearly see some of the entertainers moving about, tending fires and children. There were only two royal guards with them, for Pete had practically snuck out of the palace, and ordered them to accompany him and Andy. "What are you going to do? Storm that whole place with only the four of us?"

"No, you stay here," Pete said, and slid down off his horse, making sure the large travelling pouch he had stayed securely tied about his waist. He wondered, fleetingly, what his father had thought of the note he had left for him. Andy gaped at him as he handed his reins over. "Go back some way, and make... you know, that place where you stay a little while."

"Camp," one of the guards grunted.

"Right, that. Stay there and if I'm not back within, um, a day? Just, you know. Rally the troops."

"Pete, you can't rally the troops with _three people_ ," Andy hissed, but Pete was already crawling away through the underbrush.

It was only by chance that no-one spotted him, due to all the noise they were making in their camp, laughing and teasing each other. Pete was a horrible soldier, and made a huge racket tumbling down the hill. He found himself outside of the circle of tents, and slunk along the perimeter, trying to figure out where Dawn's tent could be, and he heard her name being called.

"Dawn? Dawn! You finished stringing that guitar yet? Oh, you have. Thanks! I'm at the other end, if you need me."

Pete went to where Joe's voice had sounded and listened closely. He could hear someone inside moving about as Joseph ran off, and without thinking all this through, he lifted the edge of the tent and wriggled under. He only appreciated the stupidity of this when something heavy came crashing down on his head and he rolled about the blanket-covered ground, groaning in pain.

"Why'd you do that?" he accused, ignoring the fact that he had trespassed in someone's private space. "Suppose you smashed my skull in with that... is that a _pot_? Did you _really_ use a pot against the Royal Head?!"

"I had no idea it was the Royal Head," Dawn replied in a low voice, the first time he had ever heard her speak. She was still completely covered up, a large hood almost completely obscuring her face, which was covered with the veil anyway. "I thought that it was a Robbing Head, and tried to defend myself."

"There's not much to defend," Pete said sharply, looking up at Dawn's obscured form. "It's not like you're some kind of princess or anything--" He cut himself off as Dawn held up her pot again. "Wait, wait, no need to get violent."

"What do you want?" Dawn whispered urgently. "You're not to be in here. Get out."

"You have to sing for me again!" Pete cried. "I need to sleep! And you can't tell a prince to get out, that's bad manners."

"I just did. And _you_ shouldn't talk about manners, you're really rude. And ugly."

Pete drew back, like a scandalised maiden, one hand to his chest. "How _dare_ you," he said. "You _lie_."

"Why should it matter to you whether I lie or not?" Dawn sat in that graceful way, a wary distance. "And you are. You're scrawny and funny-looking and your cheeks are too big. The only nice things about you are your eyes, and they're all puffy."

"You can talk," Pete said nastily, quite forgetting he was here to ask, very nicely, for help. "You're all covered in miles and miles of clothing, I bet you're hideous beneath that."

"Think what you like." Dawn spoke in that bare whisper of a voice. "I don't care."

"I think you've cheated me," Pete said abruptly. "You've taken pay for something you didn't fix."

"And what was that?"

"I didn't sleep last night or the night before."

Dawn made a huffing noise, and Pete realised that it was chuckling. "And did you sleep the night before _that_? When I sang?"

"Yes, but--"

"You didn't ask for me to sing more than one night," Dawn continued smugly. "All you said was, _sing for me tonight_. So I sang that night. You slept that night. How did I cheat you?"

Pete clenched his fists, trying to curtail his temper. Dawn's arms were folded beneath the voluminous sleeves of the robes, the large, deceptively innocent eyes glittering at him from behind the veil. He took a deep breath and then nodded curtly.

"Very well," he said, in as calm a voice as he could, while he snuck his hand into the deep pocket sewn on the outside of the pouch, keeping his eyes fixed on Dawn's face. "I will have to return to the castle, and live out the rest of the curse, a sleepless, wasted, caricature of a man." He grabbed onto a folded paper and opened it deftly, feeling the powder wrapped in it fall into his hand.

Dawn's eyes became concerned. "Oh... I... Well. And, you won't be able to sleep for all those nights," she finished lamely.

"Yes," Pete sighed with all the drama he could muster. "But I can't force you to help me. At least, let us shake hands and depart in good faith."

Dawn hesitated, and then pulled one hand slowly from out of the sleeves, leaning forward and reaching out. It was larger than Pete expected, but plump and pale and soft. Pete leaned forward, but before he put out his hand, he threw the fistful of powder into her face.

"Listen closely," he said in a harsh tone as she coughed and batted at the air. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," Dawn said, her voice gone deep and drowsy. She sat very still. Pete hoped that the hypnotic power of the powder would last long, it had been one of the things he had tried to use to fall asleep, earlier on in his curse. At the same time, he hoped that it was not _too_ strong, for she would simply lie down and sleep it out.

"You will get up and follow me back to my camp."

"Alright."

"And... and then you'll come home with me. And sing me to sleep."

"Yes."

It wasn't as easy as that. They snuck out of the camp without an incident, but the powder wore off before she clambered up onto Pete's horse; she began to struggle against him almost instantly. She fought furiously, snarling and kicking, and Pete had to use the powder to subdue her again.

"Will that ruin her mind in any way?" Andy asked doubtfully, watching Pete struggle to push her onto the horse.

"Of course not," Pete said, not knowing if it really would or no. "Let's go home."

"You do realise that her tribe will now disown her," Andy said as Pete swung up after her, trying to find a comfortable spot. "They'll say she's been defiled."

"That's not my problem," Pete said darkly, and urged the horse on. "I just need to get some sleep."

* * *

His father, predictably, was not pleased.

"You're out of your mind," he said in shock when Pete and his little entourage clattered into the main courtyard, Dawn's limp body slumped in front of him. "The lack of sleep has driven you out of your mind."

"Yes," Pete gritted out. He tried to tug Dawn into his arms and staggered under her weight. She was very heavy, but he managed to support her as she stood, leaning heavily against him, her eyes blank. "It has. You never know how much you need it until you can't get it at all."

"But to kidnap someone!" the king burst out. "Have you lost all sense of honour? You're a _prince_ of the realm. Princes don't go about abducting people!"

Pete didn't answer. He simply walked with Dawn, his arm around her waist, leading her into the palace. "I won't hurt you," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice when Dawn hesitated on the threshold of the imposing entry, a low moan curling out of her throat. "I mean, I know I kidnapped you and all, and I'm really sorry about that, but I'm not going to hurt you."

Dawn relaxed a little and went willingly with him. They made their way very slowly to the guest quarters. He sat her on the low, comfortable bed and urged her to lie back, to go right to sleep, so that the effects of the powder could be worked out of her system. He hesitated, feeling very weary, and then decided that since he couldn't sleep anyway, he would just rest here. Just for a little while. No one would come in, anyway. His father was too busy raging downstairs, the servants thought he was insane and were giving him a wide berth, and his own room was in a wing nearly opposite to this one, a far walk indeed, and he was really very tired from all the kidnapping.

So, he lay down on the bed beside her, keeping a careful distance.

He did not notice the moment he fell asleep.

* * *

Peter was sprawled on top of someone, someone solid and warm and squishy at the same time, like a favourite pillow. He snuggled close, his head on their chest; he could hear the steady thump of a heartbeat, and sighed.

His eyes flew open at the answering sigh and he froze. A hand was in his hair, gently resting, rubbing now and again and Pete wanted to purr like the cat in the kitchens. He was tangled up in a mess of light material and he felt so comfortable... and rested. And content.

Another sleepy sigh and Pete lifted his head a little, feeling the hand slip out of his hair and rest against his cheek before dropping limply onto the bed, fingers moving in a dream-like fashion. He turned his head, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head.

Dawn's hood had been pulled back, her veils yanked completely to one side and he could see the plump roundness of her face and that she wasn't really a _she_ at all, but a very rosy-mouthed boy who blinked open his light eyes and stared up at Pete.

 _Never again you'll find sweet rest, hidden on a woman's breast._

"Oh, no," Pete whispered, and scrambled back. The boy's eyes were filled with shock, and he sat up quickly, looking around himself in consternation.

"You!" he accused Pete, raising a trembling finger. "What have you _done_?"

"Gotten myself in a really bad situation," Pete muttered and the boy ripped his veil off and flung it at Pete. It didn't go far, just kind of floated in the air, and Pete watched it with horrified eyes as it settled like a wounded bird on the thick sheets, before he gazed back up at the boy's pale face.

"Stupid!" the boy he knew as Dawn spat. "I _knew_ you were as stupid as you looked!"

"I didn't know," Pete said weakly, and then cleared his throat. "I mean, how was I to know that you were.... you know. Of the male persuasion?"

"If you didn't kidnap me, then you wouldn't have _had_ to know. Damn you!" the boy yelled and lunged for Pete's neck. There was a short, desperate struggle and the both of them gave up after awhile, glaring at each other and panting horribly. Obviously, they both needed to develop more princely muscles.

"Why are you dressed like a girl?" Pete said, and yawned. A feeling of fatigue swept over him, and he just wanted to grab onto the boy and... cuddle close... and just sleep. His mind tried to stagger away at this very strong wish, for it was _a boy_ , a very pretty one, but a boy all the same. Pete decided that he was going to go and drag Morgana from wherever his father had sent her, and strangle her to death. Maybe in the evening. After he got close to this Dawn-boy and got a little nap.

Maybe.

"I was in hiding," the boy said irritably, fussing with his veil. He narrowed his eyes at Pete, who was trying to shuffle closer. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just getting a little more comfortable," Pete said with false cheer.

"Well, don't." The boy's eyes ran quickly over him, probably to see if he had any more of that mind-altering powder hidden on his person. "I'm a prince, too," he told Pete haughtily. "I bet I'm a better prince than you are."

Pete didn't refute this; he was busy trying to get even closer, without the boy noticing.

"I'm Patrick," the boy volunteered, watching Pete with those really nice eyes. "Stop that, stop pawing me."

"Please," Pete finally ground out, almost against his will. "Just... alright, just let me rest my right head here, and let me sleep for a bit. Please. I really, really need to. I'm under a curse, you know. I'm a cursed prince, so I have more prince-points than you. I win."

Dawn... _Patrick_ looked down at Pete's hand, which was splayed on his chest. His eyes flickered up and locked with Pete's reddened, exhausted ones, and they softened. They were really, _really_ nice eyes, Pete thought, and assumed that his mind was very tired to think a thing like that. "Alright," he said crisply, reclining against the large mound of pillows. "Go on, lay your stupid greasy head."

"It's not greasy," Pete muttered and lay beside him, gathering Patrick very close. He placed his head almost gingerly on the layers of gauzy cloth, and they both lay there, quite rigidly, Patrick's heart thumping rapidly in Pete's ear. Patrick felt wrong in his arms, too little curves and even though he was soft, he wasn't soft enough, but after a long moment, he felt a hand touch his hair.

"My father was a king of the north," Patrick said softly, petting his hair. Pete hummed and started to relax. "He was murdered by his brother, and my uncle tried to kill me. My friend Joe rescued me and hid me as his sister. When I'm old enough, I'll go back and reclaim the throne."

"Hmm," Pete said, relaxing under the gentle hand and the calm voice. Patrick's voice was just as nice when it was talking in that soothing way.

"So I'm a prince in exile," Patrick continued. "I have more prince-points than you. I win."

Pete opened his mouth to argue this, but he fell asleep between one breath and the next, and only a long snore came out.

* * *

What else do you want to hear, dearest? Oh! Well, Joe came back for his friend, his eyes as angrily wild as his hair, until he realised that Patrick was fairly safe where he was. He challenged Pete to a duel, for protocol's sake, and Pete sent Andy as his second, since he was far too busy catching up on his sleep. Andy and Joe became good friends in an instant, and went to play pranks on unsuspecting courtiers instead of knifing each other to an honourable death.

Pete's father invited Patrick to stay for as long as he wished, under the protection of their kingdom, mainly because as long as Pete got to rest his head on Patrick's chest, he slept well, and was in a good mood for the rest of the day. Many times, he and Patrick got into loud arguments, and Patrick locked him out, and Pete could not sleep. But, mostly, Patrick didn't mind being a pillow, for the rest of the thousand nights.

There were many rumours about the two of them, and Pete would only answer these with a sly smile, and Patrick with a burning blush, and no one really knew. Morgana tried to find out one night, trying to peer through the window of Patrick's quarters, but was thwarted by cold oil being thrown on her from the roof by a cackling Pete.

There came a time when the curse was broken, one quiet, normal day, and Pete was strangely sorry to see it arrive, for it meant no more cuddling with a boy he now adored very much, since he had learned of Patrick's delightful sense of humour and loyalty to his friends and general wondrousness with anything musical. Patrick prepared to return to his own land and reclaim the throne; Pete moped around the castle for days, until he decided to accompany Patrick, claiming that as the Prince with the most points, he had more standing, and would be more feared than Patrick.

Patrick agreed, but he knew, just as well as anyone, that he had more Prince-points than Pete.

They all went to the Lands of the North and did battle... but no, my dear one, _that_ is a tale for another day.


End file.
